Not lost or lonely, Not dead, nor empty: I’m full — so if only I could tell what’s within me. -- -- So I wander slowly,

Not gone, nor lonely, not low, or left emptied: I’m full — but if only I could tell what’s within me.

From a midnight in September, and this January’s cold. For so long I've remembered, and so few I’ve ever told. For this spark we light that's quelled desire; may it never cease to grow.

Tendrils of thought come creeping -- wry -- and books take root somewhere behind. They spawn their seeds as he walks by. He mends the books, they tend his mind.

Piles of books will fill the mind. No pages turned nor words defined -- just cluttered shelves of unread lines. Stacks of thought left unrefined and lessons lost to lack of time.

Where Gospel Glows With choking fog that drives me blind, this winter’s eve's a stormy night. As waters churn where shadows hide, a darkness lurks -- its talons filed.

Seldom does a mindful man dream of seeds yet sewn, if he dares take root himself then they can never grow.

He grins and dares to brace the cold. It whips and whines, its cuts come close to tearing him from flesh to bone. He does not stop, he does not slow. His path is straight, his mind takes hold of what's ahead of what's below

Humor -- dry. Smiles -- wry. Heavy thoughts are simplified when locked away from prying eyes by hidden truths and spoken lies.

Devotion. So fickle — the limb that drapes as if cowered, ignoble in nature — it never will flower. Devotion’s not due — no honor’s from cowards. Submission’s from strength: pledged fealty from valor.

Within each mind we find a book -- one with lessons if we only look past our impression and outwardly reach -- so then we'll find what it stands to teach.

The things we are told that lie in the mind we are not meant to hold as we each one day find. But, these things which are rotten should remain as a spark -- setting fire to the heart of a man who has not forgotten.

James I "Each pod would eventually make its way out of the city and — James' line of thought stopped on cue. The pod dropped steeply, and the hum of the train became deafening as it plunged deep below the earth’s surface." Though he had taken the necessary precautions to ensure that his superiors at the ACRON would think otherwise, James was almost giddy with excitement. Sat in the middle of one of Aramnal's private transport pods, James appeared calm and collected. He had always known to represent himself well, but since his employment with the ACRON, his demeanor had become as stable and steady as any even the most disciplined among them. On the inside he was an unusual flurry of knots and tangles, and -- despite his managing to appear otherwise -- his mind ran without end. His body ached from adrenaline that he had suppressed for far too long, but he was truly happy -- a rare occurance in this city. His joy had not surfaced until after this morning's conversation. Despite having heard reliable whispers for weeks, James had delayed his excitement until he was on the magnet train, and thus away from his council's directorship -- at least for the duration of his assignment. This will stand to be the longest period he has been out of touch with the organization in the almost six years that they have employed him. Given the cryptic instruction he had received, James knew well enough that he was allowed very little insight into what was meant to be accomplished over the next few weeks. Being a simple pawn in play had never come naturally to James, but leaving a breadth of room for the unknown always had. He did not take casually the gravity of his assignment, but he cleared his mind to prevent any ramblings it may produce from souring his otherwise delightful mood. "I serve to spectate, and not speculate." James dutifully reminded himself. He felt his way over the words with his palate but not his lips or vocal cords. Silent speech had been something his directorship had encouraged him to utilize while away, and this mantra in particular had been a recent favorite among those in his council. Its words felt more rehearsed than appreciated -- though that was his reason for reminding himself of them. "A smile is only as strong as the muscle that gives it shape," James spoke silently and smiled to himself. His face maintained its complete neutrality. Ground transport in the city had been privatized a couple of decades ago. Since then, it had ceased to be a luxurious affair and become a necessary way of life for many professionals. Rezoning of much of the city had followed shortly after the pods were privatized. Many of the more common folk of Inner Aramnal had found the ability to live in one place and work in another for the first time. The pod's patrons had since become an odd variety of people from so many walks of life. The pod where James would spend the next few hours brought with it at least a dozen others, most of whom completely ignored everyone else. This served as James’ strategy as well, though it was not everyone's idea of pod transport. One man, in particular, seemed hell-bent on eye-balling each of the pod’s female patrons in turn. Another was sound asleep -- though the magnet train hummed at around sixty decibels or so -- and a third seemed to be very drunk. The men and women of Aramnal were as varied in build and temperament as the dunes that surrounded the city, and just as the dunes would, any outliers of Aramnal's general populus were sure to make themselves known. The cost of being unaware of his environment could be his life, a though that was seldom far from the forefront of James' mind. Where he was going, the dunes could either keep your life or take it from you, and identifying the difference is near impossible for those with untrained senses. People he could read, but sands lie about their intentions far more readily than any man could.

James keeps himself hidden atop the bell-tower. The night provided sufficient cover, but by keeping back from what little light the adjacent cafes and taverns cast, James was able to fully disguise himself among the tower's thick oaken beams. Feet apart, and legs braced firmly, James stands more still even than the tree-tops below. These beams were much thicker, and stronger still after being fashioned into a bell-tower built and rebuilt only every two-hundred years. Standing back from the low banister that runs the perimeter of the tower's top-most platform, James keeps himself tucked in the darkness of the night. With no building nearby of comparable height, he doesn't fear his shadow betraying his location at this time of night. In fact, James has no fear at all of the ordinary eyes that scan the city. Eyes that go about their lives blissfully in near-blindness. His fear instead is of trained eyes -- like his own. Keeping himself back, and his mind calm, James' feet are just more than shoulder width apart, making firm contact with the platform through the soles of his boots. With his knees partially bent, James stays still -- but not so still that his motions betray his person as distinct from the structue itself. Imitating its natural sway, he and the tower lean gently as gusts influence their respective positions. Imitation rather than resistance -- one of few ways to be overlooked by a trained eye. As was customary, James had arrived long before the man who would be joining him. Odd though, the circumstances of their meeting. The messenger had met James at one of the usual cafes, and after exchanging their required pleasantries, James had been told where he was meant to find Earl Jameson -- a top academic in Oakwood City, and mentor-of-sorts to James. "Ah, one more thing. Two days time, James. At the first toll after midnight." The messenger added as he stood to take his leave.

James II "Before he had traveled here, he had wondered at the grandeur of this place. Even today, it captivated his curiosity, and lighted his body with anticipation: a barren wasteland, rich with industry, and teeming with local and imported life alike." As James imagined himself nearing his destination, the hostel made itself known: appearing from the sand as though it had been summoned. Its entrance sat on the side of what looked to be a tiny dune -- budding off of a larger one, from which the building's exterior rose into the sky. It was old, and not in the way that a weathered structure comes across as impressive for its strength. No, the building was decidedly not impressive. It looked to be two stories high but was much wider along the dune than it was tall. Nestled firmly in the surrounding sand, the dune dwarfed the hostel to the point that James worried it may be swallowed if there were to be a sandstorm. James had simply overlooked the structure on his approach: a building that blended comfortably into the wild sands -- made almost entirely of Adobe mud. Not baked brick, but built insead from thick-set slabs of earth, clad with what looked to be a fishing net of grass fibers. Outer Aramnal was known to lack large vegetation, and so it should have been expected for wood cladding to not be featured in their architecture. Even still, the thing looked nothing like what James would have thought when his employer said that he would be covering the cost of his accommodations. "A fishing net! To think..." James trailed off. Responding aloud to his thoughts was a habit that he still needed to kick, but what could they fish for so far outside of the city center? Sand fleas came to mind, but not much else. He cracked a smile, thinking himself clever. Prying open a set of doors, James scuttled in and quickly shut and latched them behind. In this small chamber, he disrobed and adorned the clothing worn within private spaces in Aramnal. He completed the change by loosening the strings on his boots and opting for his own bare feet -- as was customary. Locking his things in one of the provided cupboards, he made his way through another set of doors, and down a ladder. Turning back around, he stopped to take in the lobby of the hostel where he would stay the night. Set underground to mitigate the otherwise intolerable heat, the lobby was a cold blessing compared to the thick sand above. He marveled at the entry-room's floor: a mosaic of large hand-hewn stones, set deep into the ground. Their sides were rough and each was jointed with loose gravel to meet comfortably with its neighbor. Their top faces were worn smooth from the passage of so many pairs of feet, and comfortably cool to the touch.

Thoughts of thought -- oft ill begotten, but a mind in vein, will be forgotten. To waste its gifts -- a tragedy. A mind adrift puts a soul to sea.

Author's Note: A very short story written as an extension of the following three line prose. "However dark, the night above stands alone, only lit by a soft glow. All alone, he himself fights on, casting his light on the stark quiet ground below. A sad sight to see, for a moon to shed its light on an otherwise empty valley." Darkness Falls, and the Sun Remains. Plotting its ascent, the sun readies itself. Shrouded by high-peaked mountains that loom along the horizon line, the grassland is blackened by his absence. Blind as they may be, the plains refuse to silence themselves. They rumble and roar, a cacophony of the living and dying, each taking its turn to speak on the matter at hand.

Winter winds whip wild the sail. Softly speaks the nightingale, and whistles shrill -- the whippoorwill -- who takes his turn to tell a tale.

An unfinished novella that may, or may not, end up being rolled into a similarly unfinished serial novella entitled: "Gust". Prologue James A rocky outcropping can be heard above the clash and clamor of the ocean's currents. James, dazed and weary from this last sleepless night, is jolted to attention at the distant cry. "Castaway!" He echoes against the rock's wailing and the sea's incessant shout. "Castaway! Port Side!"

Episode I He feels uneasy as he tries to keep stride with her – the woman who has his heart, but whom he’s only just come to know. He takes a few steps, then a few more. The more he tries to keep up, the more his pace falters. His heart races, rather than his legs, and his mind trips and stutters with the thoughts he's been trying so hard to avoid. He wasn't much for waking this early before he'd met her, though a good jog on a brisk day had long been among his favorite ways to pass the time, and still is -- he supposes. It’s not been the pace of their morning jogs that’s caused his ill feeing, but instead the pace at which they’d become so close with one another. It seemed to him that each day they were more and more comfortable with each other, growing together not only as a couple, but as tight and fast friends. Each week flew by with greater and greater speed, marked only by his once-weekly realization that things had changed between them, and so time had passed. He'd often impressed others with his moral and mental aptitude, but a keen sense of awareness he'd never found to be one of his gifts. Rushing into something like this – rushing into anything, really – has never been James’ way of doing things. For as long as he can remember, or at least as long as he can recollect while keeping no more than three strides behind, James has kept an even head on his shoulders. In trying times, it has been his tendency to weigh out his choices that has been the defining factor of whatever success he has today. Thinking back, he recalls a not-so-distant version of himself – one from just a few years ago – and puts his mind back to that time. When he’d left school to follow his passion, and found his sophomore year suitemates incorporating themselves, it was his willingness to entertain and explore all reasonable directions for himself that set him on a steady path. He’d always felt that this would be a foundational part of himself, and finding that it is so fickle a part that it can be toppled by the first beautiful woman he’d loved in so very long... “Wait up!” James shouts after Lucy.